There are many stories I could share about my Aunt Jody, but the one I keep returning to takes place in Disney — during a strange in-between era. Technically it was Downtown Disney by then, but it was still holding on to the last scraps of what used to be Pleasure Island. You could feel it in the signage, the music spilling out of the clubs, the way each floor had a different decade playing like a time capsule that refused to die. It felt old school — the last vestige of a place that had once been louder, wilder, and unapologetically fun. On this particular night, our group wandered into one of the multi-level nightclubs. I had a few drinks (okay, more than a few) and found the courage to claim a spot on the dance floor. When the rest of the group eventually found me, I was dancing like a maniac and sweating through my shirt — convinced the universe had been waiting for my big break. Most of the group stood back laughing at the spectacle. And honestly, I don't blame them. But not Jody. Without a drink, without hesitation, she walked straight onto that dance floor, stood next to me, and matched my chaos beat for beat. We laughed like hell — so hard it felt like time paused just for us inside that fading old-school Disney relic. That was Jody: she didn't need permission or liquid courage. She just joined you. Whatever dance floor life put in front of you — ridiculous, messy, or beautiful — she stepped onto it with you. I will miss that kind of courage. I will miss her.
William Welch · Nephew